


Healing

by lfNidusPrime (goldenboisinsauce)



Series: Ravenous [2]
Category: Warframe
Genre: Child Abandonment, Corpse Desecration, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Medical Procedures, Near Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-28 08:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30136674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenboisinsauce/pseuds/lfNidusPrime
Summary: After escaping a Grineer compound, an undying Nidus begins to fall apart and deals with the problem dwelling inside him.
Series: Ravenous [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218143
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More detailed warning than what I can put in the tags:  
> corpse desecration isn't like Nekros' Desecrate, it's kinda like playing a game of Operation but you hit the buzzer a lot, put things in the wrong place, and it's real! how fun.  
> The body in question is feminine so if that bothers you and you need to back out, I don't blame you.

Pain, too much of it. Need rest. Can't

The soldiers with strong timbre but weakening bodies are many. Planet, theirs. 

Can't return to the shapes with a voice. Once an old cargo ship of merchants with harsh lips and many metal birds. No way to recover there. Only the others can recover, partly, with tools, screws, bolts. We are flesh. We do not... belong with them.

Her, the voice called her "Mag". Metal. Glass. Weak body. Thin arm, coiled with cold copper. Other arm, destroyed. The soldiers with the same faces ripped it from her, tried to tear out circuitry from her gut. There was flesh there, the meat of a machine.

A beast, named "Valkyr." Hardy, untamed, undisciplined. She loses herself, tears at the walls of the ship. She screams of how it reminds her of an old prison. Her shackles still pierce in to her neck, chains of the merchants' scientist still dangle from her wrists. She bleeds from them. We tried to help, she clawed at our face.  
Only Mag can quiet her, attempt to weld her. Because Mag was the one to free her.

A child. "Nezha". Small. Light. Careless. It was him who found us, pulled us out. His hands burnt our skin. He cannot heal, only protect himself. But there's a cauterized cavern in his chest. Stalker, the voice said. Stalker sliced through his Halo. He did it to save a human man. We weren't there then. Should have been.

Valkyr had dragged in the man after slaughtering reminders of her past. Now, he lies in a cold room and never wakes.  
The voice has no name for him, cannot find it no matter how much it searches. He stirs when we are near, sometimes his fingers stretch, reach out to us. We do not respond, we have no answer. Want to. Can't.  
Instead we watch. Commit him to memory.   
He has golden staples in his beautifully dark scarred face. They are embedded on the bridge of his nose, on his chin, one on each the sharp angle of his jawline, and finally a pair in the center of his forehead. One arm bear the marks of merchants, almost. Not quite. Some straight, bold, like theirs. Others, curving, fluid, like the exposed veins of our own form. 

  
Memories of them do not ease the pain. Worsens it. Prolongs it. They are dying slowly, as we are now.   
That toxic brute we let defile us is still within. Our organs are trailing behind us, yet his parasitic brood still finds something to cling on to. There is some comfort knowing our demise would bring them down with us.

Contemplate it. Dragging ourselves back into the mercy of the armored clones. Have them destroy us completely. 

No. 

Forward.

Acid begins to fall from the sky now. Seeps into wounds. Couldn't heal them before. Now their edges begin to bubble, scream out. Fall to knees. Weakening. We can't become any smaller, not now. There would be nothing left.

Hold.

Pull ourselves to a crashed tanker for shelter from the rain. We scavenge its insides for anything that can save us.  
A dead soldier awaits in its driver's seat, pockets with half spent ammunition. Body, fresh enough. Though, they are all born half dead. It suffices.

Connect.

With a severed vein we inject ourselves past their still open eye. Searching.  
Their brain has hemorrhaged. Nothing much of use beyond flickers of their last moment, hinting at heart failure before crashing.   
Traveling down through the tunnel of their spine, we branch out, exploring.  
We absorb an overgrown gland inside their neck. We intrude between the cracks in their bones to gorge on marrow. Sustains us to heal our skin.

Our armor begins to shift over our bloody gut, threatening to leave our entrails outside our body.  
Despite knowing the internal infrastructure of our enemies, we realise hardly know ourselves. But... they have limbs like us, walk like us, fight like us to some sad degree. Perhaps they are built like us.  
With our blade we tear into our savior cadaver to observe, study, and to imitate. We compare each part of us to theirs.  
Their lone heart is nearly falling apart at the seams. We find ours, both of them still beating and sitting in our chest. Good.  
Lungs, surprisingly healthy. We don't seem to possess them where they do, one hangs low and scrapes at our thigh now. Maybe it shouldn't be there. We move it.  
Guts we have, however theirs is longer. So much. We move ours where it should be.  
There is a small bag like organ that fits in the palm of our hand. Bladder. We do not have that, at least not in the way this one seems to be used. Its tube extends to an opening between their legs.  
We have flashes of our defiler's growth. This body possesses a different type, much smaller and hidden in a hood of skin. There are folds, that lead to another opening, another vessel.  
With our hands we bring it closer. This vessel is empty, barren.   
Envy.  
Our blade turns towards ourselves, to scrap the cursed growth out. It had latched itself to our ribs this time.   
We watch it wriggle, stretch its arms and little nubs for fingers. This one has a mouth and it gapes wide open as it suffocates without formed lungs.

Pity.

We are dying, us and... Ours...? No. No. No. Theirs. This one belongs to them.

It struggles to understand how to breathe. Its tiny hands paw out desperately. For us.   
We bring a vein away from the corpse, and thread it around the horrid spawn. We link our lung with it and search for something, anything to help it breathe.   
It is hard to breathe evenly while watching it suffer, but we must do so if it can stand even the slightest chance.  
A soft sound, a gasp. A stronger wail. It has scratchy cords in its throat, like us.  
As we cradle it, our vein finds something. This one had no digestive track, no way to sustain itself beyond the air we gave it.

There is nothing one we can do for the little one.

We make a noise, a noise it understands. An apology.  
We begin to pull away our vein. It grows still, small pattering heart beating slower and slower until it eventually would come to a --

A shriek like our own echoes outside the tanker. There is the splash of footsteps, more screams, whistles, chirps.  
The Familiar were coming.

We scramble out with the little one in still our arms, running.   
They followed, chasing, surrounding.

Welcoming.

An Ancient Healer steps out from among its family of many. It watches over us, and its eyeless gaze falls on the little one.  
It holds out an elongated arm towards us, it, and we listen.  
But the little one refuses, it still clings on to us even now.   
We want nothing more than to destroy it for its defiance, we feel nothing but hatred for its filthy father. We could be rid of it, and it could finally have life. It could not survive with us even if we wanted it to!  
Our anger unsettles the Familiar, they become restless and agitated. The Healer silences them, calming them with a soft wave washing over them.

We crumble to the ground, we can't help it. We still hurt despite finding something to consume. It wasn't enough. Not for both us and the little one. We almost sob. Pain won't let up. Broken wheezes escape us.  
The Familiar embrace us, bring us closer to the Healer.   
They tell us to wait, to rest. That we will wake and walk again. All we can do is listen.

In the dark, we see them. The shapes. Cold copper. Shackled wrists. Burning Halo. Golden staples.   
His eyes open, they stare right at me.  
They're waiting.

We wake up.  
The little one slithers to us. It is breathing on its own.  
It laughs as it shows off a mass of little tentacles it has instead of legs, and moves onto our lap. At this we can see our body is whole, no longer falling apart.  
The Familiar crowd around, the air filled an ecstatic electricity we all could feel.  
The little one giggles, and dares wrap its little arms around us. We recoil, flinch, kick ourselves away.  
It wails. Familiar screech at us, chastising us for acting so cruelly to one of our own.  
We can do nothing but hiss. This one never belonged to us, even if it grew within us!  
The Healer arrives, hushing us all.   
With its gaze, it asks, do we want stay with them. We didn't have to be alone anymore, we didn't have to fight anymore. That we could have a family.

We reject their offer. We have a family, we tell the Healer. We belong with them.

We walk. We don't turn back to face the little one. It would be better this way.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nidus returns to his ship, and everything begins to stir around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. this hurted :( please check new tags for trigger warnings. please stay safe.  
> also, pov change here. they'll continue to switch from now, but hopefully Nidus' voice remains somewhat the same (as plot continues).

We keep walking, looking for machines or spires that can speak to the cargo ship. We don't like it much. Too metal, too many straight forms, too manufactured and cold. But, home. The voice, or set of shapes made of light... we are not sure if they are the ship or an inhabitant like the rest inside it. The voice fills the silence with its warmth, depth, its words. Some words we don't understand, like "Cephalon", but we understand its name.  
Xuron.  
We find a signal tower left abandoned by the soldiers, scale it, reach the nest where a console stands. We look for a blade like device Xuron had built into our wrist, a Parazon. It wasn't there.  
The Familiar might have removed it, mistakening it for shrapnel. We do not have the drive or will to check and know for certain. Besides, do not want to see the Little One after saying goodbye. Would make the Little One think we care for it when we had shown we do not.  
Even if we might have lied to it.

Enough. 

Soldiers don't need a parazon to use a console. Our fingers are more nimble than theirs, but their script is hard to decipher. See images, coordinates, map. Marked objects of interest.  
Recognize one.   
We attempt to type a message, a jumble of squares and bars. Useless. Send it anyway.

Waiting.

Waiting.

A response. An audio file.  
Ship's voice, said it locked on our signature after receiving a mess of "Grineer" text. Grineer. The soldiers of the same faces.  
The voice, Xuron, says it is coming to collect us at a rendezvous point. Will send Nezha out.  
We growl. We do not anticipate tending to the burns that frame gives, intentionally or not. We slam the keys and send it to Xuron.  
Xuron says Mag will meet us instead. Better. Useless to us, but similar to us. Instead of stepping forward, she brings them forward to her, she holds them, tear their defenses down. Formidable, but one mistake, she is destroyed.  
Imagined what it would have been like for her, in pieces at the hands of the Grineer. Was her arm sliced off? Blown off with an explosive? Was it crushed by a large generator? We were once morbidly curious. We would ask, cannot, she has no voice, we cannot form words. Would write, type, but don't know any script. Sometimes some scatters across our vision. Do not understand what it says. It might be a good thing, that we can't question, poke, interrogate. Might come off as intrusive, amused. We were, once. Not now.

We were destroyed. And we did that to ourselves. The enemy had planted its seed on us like dirt because we underestimated, we were overconfident, we were too curious and gave into a need that was never ours.   
Mag made a mistake, whatever that was, and suffers for it, scars prove it. We made a mistake, there were no scars on us, no, the scars remain hidden among the Familiar, keeping it secret. Better that way, it no longer suffers, doesn't pay for what we have let happen.

Enough.

We glide down, slide to a halt, unholstering our shotgun to inspect it. A Tigris. Not our shotgun, really, but Valkyr's. The ship's arsenal is too small, we all end up borrowing each other's weapons. Mag has her Kulstar. Nezha, a strange red and gold sword that sometimes whispers. We never weld it, feels wrong in our hands. Rather pick up a fallen enemy's blade than touch that cursed thing.

Mag stands at a catwalk, accompanied by her raska kubrow. It protects her, bolsters her to regenerate the glow she emits. We have noticed that the others had that too. Shields, Xuron calls it. It is curious about why we don't have it. Stupid question. We are flesh and bone, they have metal.   
Her kubrow barks at our presence. It nothing like the beasts the Grineer have, instead of having an imposing stout form covered with a tough hairless hide, Mag's kubrow was lanky, tall, covered it fur that matted too easily. Hardly terrifying with its long tongue flapping in the wind.  
It starts trotting to us, expecting praise, affection. We give it a quick pat on the head, and it slobbers all over our hand.  
A Mag approaches us, we feel at ease to holster the Tigris. She pulls out her parazon, spliting it open to point out Xuron's pinned location for us. We flick the spit off our hands, nod, and follow her.

  
Back in the ship, we hide. Xuron wanted to scan us, see why we went off its radar. We won't allow it, can't now.   
We escape to a small alcove, a smaller storage off the main cargo hold. 

Still feel sick despite being healed by the Familiar. Feel the need to undo their hard work to search for the reason why. Maybe we were still carrying his seed. Need to weed it out for good.  
Unsheathing our blade, we begin. There's an itch on our neck, and we start there. Slicing into tendons, ruining the Healer's work. We feel guilt, but we feel release.

Xuron tells us to stop. Its usual calming monotone is raised now, almost begging. Please come back for an evaluation, it can help, it says. We ignore them, pushing harder.  
Our blood drips down our body, it decorates the metal floor with its gorgeous pink glow. Tendrils sprout from the splatters, they whisper to us, tell us to continue. Tell us we are beautiful. We listen.

Xuron's sensors were haywire. His cameras could only watch the frame of flesh kill itself in front of him. He was helpless to end this.  
"Hunter Mag, stop him, please. He won't listen."  
Mag had already bolted to the alcove, her Raska chasing after her. On Xuron's feed the sliding door wasn't budging when she tried to force it open. She used her pull on it, draining herself against its resistance.  
Pink seeped from between its seams, dancing towards her. Mag stumbled back, her Raska growling.   
Nezha slid to Xuron's console, slamming at his keys. He swiped across the screen, finding the feed of the human's quarters. Xuron checked the the sensors linked to the man's vitals, they were spiking. Temperature rising, stress levels peaking, heart rate elevated. Something was happening, something Xuron had no training for. He hadn't had anything on board he could administer for situations like this, he didn't predict it. A mistake, a misjudgment, something that was going to be fatal.  
Nezha raced back to the human, pulling him off the plugs and monitors.   
"Nezha, no!"  
The frame didn't listen, dragging the limp body towards the alcove Nidus had locked himself in.  
Valkyr had been at the door and had begun prying it open. Her roar had caused the pink liquid to retreat back to where it came.  
The human twitched, gasped. His hand shot to his neck.   
"Open...please." He choked out.  
Xuron felt his processors freeze. For months in his care, the human didn't make a noise.  
The door slid open.  
The walls were plastered with infested growths, there were dancing tendrils swaying nonchalantly, as if a catastrophe hadn't begun.   
Nidus was laying on the ground, chest heaving, fingers twitching. In one hand, his blade still covered in his essence laid slack in his grip. He hardly seemed conscious.  
If they were conscious to begin with, Xuron recorded. This outburst was unprescedent, a spike in emotional intelligence he had never anticipated.   
A rumble came across the whole ship. The other frames shook, taking a step back as the room spoke.  
" ** _Keep that demon away from us. From Master._** "

Nezha grew hot with rage, ignoring the omniscient thought that invaded all their minds. He carried the man in, who was frowning despite still being asleep.  
The room reacted. Tendrils snaked menancingly towards the man, wrapping around his neck and tightening.  
Nezha twisted away, trying to yank off the tendrils from the human. Too late, the man was gasping for air, clutching at them desperately. He thrashed about and Nezha lost his grip on him and was cast out. The door slammed shut again.  
Xuron tried to override the lock, but it was threaded shut by whatever Nidus had grown inside the room.   
"Nidus! Stop!"

  
He dangled in their grip, toes swaying helplessly above the ground. We - no - _I_ watched him as his eyes flew wide open to stare at me. Like the dream.  
"If you kill me, you die too." He managed.  
Good.   
His face grew grey, fear. No, sadness. He knew how I felt. Thought. Heard it. Impossible.  
"Why, why do you want to hurt yourself? Us?"  
He isn't me, I don't know what he's thinking, but I want to hear him now that he hears me. Finally answer him. He had been asking for me for months, as soon as he and I arrived.  
I want to let him go, but they won't. They hiss, say he'll taint me, take control of me.  
I have already been tainted.

At that, he falls to the ground. He takes a sharp breath. Beautiful as he suffers, as the life returns to his cheeks.  
"Thank you," he rasps. I scoff.  
He rubs his neck, I find myself doing the same. They hated that, tell me he's influencing me. I don't care.  
The man sits up, meets our gaze. Can't help but admire how his eyes match the gold on his face.  
They hate that I watch. Anyone but him, they say.  
He whispers my name, "Nidus."  
I turn my head away.  
"I'll listen, if you'll let me." He held out a hand to me.  
I don't take it. I have them open the door instead.   
He can't move out on his own, he groans at the pain in his legs. I. I want to help. But if I touch him I know he'll know.  
Nezha picks him up.

Should have been me. But I'm thankful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next one is nicer, I promise. been writing this instead of watching paint dry while working on renovations.  
> This will remain rated Explicit due to graphic violence in this arc, I hadn't realized how desensitized I've become to gore until talking to some friends about this fic, whoops.  
> anymore "ships" (using that term loosely from Nidus' world view) will be seperate parts.


	3. Breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it gets nicer I said. I promise, I said.   
> You all can be the judge of that U_U

Tyl Regor rubbed a mechanical hand over his faceplate in defeat. He had been slaving over his hypothesis and proposed plan to fight the degradation in Grineer clones, and had exhausted all his ideas at least hundred times over. Even if the lone Queen had partially stopped funding his work and began replacing his efforts with the unsustainable conquest for Kuva, he couldn't abandon his life's work and his tube men. At least it had diverted the Tenno lizards' attention away from his Sealab and towards her Liches, but one Lich had actually broken into his lab once and had taken out many of those under his command. He didn't think it was the Queen's will, to sabotage his work to send a message to him. Or at least that's what he wanted to believe. Before he could confirm anything, the Lich had dematerialized and escaped, and later he found some of his findings he had transcribed into various consoles had been corrupted.  
That was possibly the work of an agent of the Queens. Or worse, a Tenno. However there hardly was any unnecessary violence involved, those lackeys of the Lotus were blood thirsty, ruthless and cold. Regor later deduced that it might even had been a Steel Meridian operative. He understood their estranged brethren still suffered the safe fate as them, and couldn't blame them for seeking out anything that could save them.  
But, the prospect of a defected Kuva Lich helping them was very unsettling. It meant the Queen was losing her grip on her soldiers, moral would be crashing.

He sighed again, pushing himself away from his work with heavy reluctance. He couldn't push himself to find another breakthrough any longer at this rate.  
A Manic dashed into his quarters and out of his thoughts. He was blabbering, waving his hands, ignoring any boundaries the scientist had set by desperately yanking at his arm.  
Regor didn't know what had his tube man so distressed, so he obliged the smaller Grineer's request to follow him. It could have been a Tenno breach, though they had been far and in between.

The Manic zipped out through the doors and into the corridors, towards a hub bub of many troopers and engineers crowding around a heavy gunner. From the dark blue armour she wore, Regor knew she was stationed off planet, assigned to either Ceres or a freighter orbitting Saturn, and whatever business she was on must have been of enough importance to bring her here to Tyl Regor.  
"Give her space," he instructed to his Grineer, "State your designation and business gunner."  
The heavy stammered, "Olah Bikk, Regor sir. Our platoon on Lex, Ceres was intercepted by a Warframe that took out more than half our numbers, injured many of the rest"  
Regor felt his augmented pacemaker twist, "I'm sorry for your loss Gunner Bikk. Do your troops require medical assistance?"  
Olah was taken aback by the geniune concern from the superior, "I- yes, but that's not why I am here. While your expertise will aid us, there is something I think you need to see first."  
Regor raised a brow behind his face plate, punctuated with a hum of acknowledgment. He gestured for Bikk to follow him to his lab and everyone but the Manic dispersed. Regor couldn't find any reason to chastise the small Grineer, letting him follow.

Bikk commed in a few other troops from their own ship, and they all communed there. A Drahk master was flanked by his two faithful companions, and he cradled a small bundle in his arms. The cloth was stained with an orange substance that gave off a foul odour of infection.  
Judging by the way he held it, how the kubrows crowded around it, Regor had an inkling what was inside.  
Bikk nodded to him, and the hunched over man brought the bundle to Regor.  
"Thank you...?" The scientist began.  
"Handler Goss, sir. The frame ambushed our Chem Strike unit. We were able to catch it momentarily after it had tried to escape, but it managed to evade us by... shedding its insides," Goss rasped, "My kubrows sniffed out the remains and found this."

Regor brought out his surgical equipment and sterilized a surface in preparation.  
Tyl Regor began pulling away the cloth. He was stunned by what laid in front of him. It was reminiscent of the beginnings of his tube men, but in even more worse state he could imagine. The malformed infant had melded appendages, a melted face and translucent skin that oozed the offending pus.  
At this, Goss' Drahks barked and panted excitedly, hopping up to Regor's table. He shouted, holding the child close to his armoured chest.  
"GIRLS, HEEL!" Goss dragged them away, "No playtime! I'm so sorry sir! They think the poor thing is one of ours."   
"What?" Regor peeked at the baby in the arms, "A Grineer? In this state, outside of a cloning tube?"  
His query was left unanswered as Goss had already excused himself to put his kubrows outside the lab. The little bundle wriggled comfortably, and Regor felt a strong pulse through the cloth. Two pulses.  
"Remarkable..." he whispered, "I-- You," he snapped towards the Manic that had been silently hanging on the wall, "Bring Commander Jahrok and her subordinate. I need their assistance," Regor laid the supposed clone back onto his examination table, checking for more vitals.   
The Manic nodded and left a trail of lights in his absence.  
"Bikk, how long ago did you find the infant?"  
Olah perked up, "Yesterday!"  
"What time, if you can be more specific." Regor asked half mindedly as he searched for any orifice the infant could breath from, and found a soft yet surprisingly well developed nasal cavity. He was able to find a small enough tube to hook the child up to a breathing apparatus.  
"9 hours ago, sir," Goss rolled his eyes behind his hood at Bikk as he returned, "We came as soon as we could. We've been trying to feed them but well..."  
"There's no mouth, eyes seem to be closed over with membrane..." Regor lightly prodded at the child's belly, "Might just have a stomach, will need an x-ray done."  
The infant made a muffled coo and Tyl couldn't help but chuckle, "You're not ticklish, are you?" He wriggled a finger under what appeared to be stunted arm, or so he thought.   
"Seems like this arm was cut off... healed over completely however. At only 9 hours? _Incredible_. Can any of you tell me what the warframe was like, could you identify what kind it was?"   
Bikk hesitated, Goss shrugged.  
"It was ugly."  
Regor wiped the infant's skin, noting how the pus did not stop oozing through the pores, "Riveting observation, Goss, please _do_ tell me whether or not it wore a dashing syandana."  
Goss shrunk at the dripping sarcasm that was as evident as the substance he wiped from the infant.  
"If I may sir," a smaller Grineer piped up. She welded a Vulkar sniper rifle on her back  
Regor was a little surprised as he hadn't noticed the Ballista hiding behind the two taller Grineer, "Alright. Your designation?"  
"Uh, A-Atize Ruga. Sir. I was able to spot the frame from a distance. I almost m-mistaken it for some Infested that had come from the quarantined sector of Seimeni. It moved t-too quickly to be one of them though."  
Regor exhaled through his nose, "Thank you Ruga--"  
The Manic shot through the room and returned with Jahrok and her assistant, who both carried a few medical supplies on their persons.  
Tyl Regor nodded towards the infant, "I need diagnostics done. Electrocardiograms, x-rays, bloodwork. Be gentle. You three, I need to ask more questions."  
Jahrok acknowledged this and situated herself in his place.  
Regor then had the Ceres soldiers follow him out the operating lab and out to the corridor.

"Now about the warframe, you said it shed..."  
Tyl Regor mused. A Chroma could shed his skin, leave it hanging the air. One could move like an erratic infested creature, and much more quickly.  
Similarly, there were reports of Saryns shedding skin like a snake, but if that was the frame in question there would have been no survivors at all...  
"I'd never seen the insides of a Tenno before," Goss nearly gagged, "It just screamed like an Ancient and its bloody guts fell out."  
"There were bugs running out of it too, maybe it had been Infested and was sick.." Bikk added.  
Goss shuddered, "If it wasn't for my girls smelling the kid as one of ours we would have started burning the whole station down  
"Could the Tenno steal a clone?"  
Bikk sneered, "It could have tried to eaten it for all we know, but we don't have any cloning facilities on Ceres, most stations are designated for mining resources for the Fomorian. That's why we were sent here to your cloning facility, it didn't add up."  
Regor had stopped pacing, "Indeed. This is troubling. The Nox in your unit is dead I assume," he rubbed the bottom of his face plate, "and you still have their body?"  
Ruga nodded and stammered, "O-Our commanding officer did not want his body put into reuse and risk con-contamination or infection."  
"Your commander is wise. Bring the body in, I need to do an autopsy. One more thing," Tyl Regor turned. The singular light that emitted from his faceplate's eyes glowed stronger, "Not of a word of this gets back to the Queen or her Liches. We don't need them to worry about a breach so... minor. If you have anymore leads on the warframe or any of its kind, send the information to me only."  
Olah, Atize and Goss exchanged looks. "Yes sir," they chimed in unison despite their evident distrust. Of course they knew better than to question a superior. Regor dismissed them, and they saluted.  
As they marched off, the Grineer scientist found himself looking back into the operating room at the infant breathing peacefully.

"This... This could be a breakthrough."


	4. Armed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nidus is no longer alone. Helminth mends the severed connection between the voices of the ship, and healing can finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurdurr arm joke. I'm sorry

They are called Helminth. They tell me we're perfect, that we were right to bond with the Nox, that it's our nature to absorb, mutate, become stronger. Perfect for killing him for his pride, for his overconfidence. Perfect for letting our brood lead their own lives, letting them spread.

I'm not sure where we meet, where either of us end. They say we are as one. But I am their Master, and they are thankful I have reawakened them. Together we can heal the others and ourselves, we don't have to struggle to survive, we can now thrive.

There's excitement between us. Together we can finally hear the others, they can hear us. Thoughts go straight to Mag and her arm. 

I leave the room, only for a moment, to find Mag. She seems alarmed at my presence, even more so at my enthusiasm to hold her by the arm, pull her into I and Helminth's alcove.

She attempts to back away, I listen.

 _Why?_ She asks. I feel her cautious curiosity.

Her arm, I point at it. She raises the nub, and shrugs. She feels no need to mourn for it, it happened a cycle or so ago. She had moved on, told me she has no trouble welding a melee weapon with her magnetic pull as long as it was metal. 

I feel proud hearing this. To finally hear her feelings of it, how she wasn't held back by it.

We still want to try something, create something to commemorate her strength.

She raises her intact hand to her face, as if to muffle a silent laugh. Flattered by I and Helminth's offer. She humours us, nods, and enters the room.

Helminth welcomed her with tendrils, setting her syandana aside. Whispers, **_glorious sister, you are powerful, you inspire us, you needn't hide your strength from now on._**

Mag's chest heaves as she hovers her intact hand over the plating she had welded over her side. Tells us a Bombard had done it. That before that she didn't know she could bleed. 

I carefully pull the plating away, revealing her innards. They're not like ours, like I had imagined, instead they appeared as tangled wires, some cauterized shut. They glow and pulsate, in time with wherever her heart was beating. These were her arteries and veins, her nerves.

I fight the want to dig in and search for parts like my own, like intestines, lungs. Mag shakes her missing arm to remind me what I had set out to do. Helminth tends to the hole in her side as I prepare my blade.

She inhales through her vents as I raise it towards myself. Please don't do this again, she says. I assure her I won't hurt for long with Helminth here. My arms split apart under Helminth's glow, and I slice at the raised bicep, at my forearm. I give her my fingers, and Helminth shrouds my dismembered fist with tendrils. My body returns to itself, and I draw my attention back to the art we create.

With the metal plate, we wrap it around my flesh, molding it to a polished upper arm, forearm, dainty fingers. We lay them down at her side and watch her energy glow around her new arm. It floated, glided with new life, as she extended her fingers and observed them in awe. Her pull kept them together and kept them apart. The right distance, the right balance.

We help her stand, she was still admiring her new arm. It didnt take away from what she had before, and she liked that. With her new fingers she traced her filled chasm, not seamless, but laced with her glow.

Mag held out her new hand for us, and we grasped it gently. It felt solid under her pull, a little way to show she had mastered her art. _Do not underestimate what you see._

Her shake was as strong as her warning, and she took her syandana and draped it over her back this time, and strode out proudly.

Pneuma, she calls herself from now on. A name she carries well. A name that demands respect. She has earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mag, my starter and still one of my fav mains to this day (after Nidus who is my 20% most used frame vs the many). I imagined her having the Alata skin in Grineer camo themed colours, and now she has the Pneuma skin's arm (mostly mismatched for now. Adds to her *pop* flavour)


End file.
